Death Row
by CuriTeaist
Summary: Dexter listens to Doakes at the end of season two, and turns himself in. One by one, his friends pay him visits to Death Row.
1. Dawning End

Based on an old prompt I dug up. An alternative ending to season two, where Dexter listens to Doakes and turns himself in. This is him turning himself in, and each additional chapter will be visitors.

* * *

The salty wind blows in my face and through my hair. I inhale deeply, enjoying the smell for the last time. I vaguely wonder what will become of my boat. The thought leaves as soon as it enters. There are bigger questions to answer.

I look at Rita and the kids. Her face is beautiful, soft and gentle. She has a small smile as she talks to Astor. Her eyes, bright and vibrant, ready to love again. My heart flutters in the closest thing to guilt I will ever feel. Take two in her love life has failed. How many times can a person be broken before they simply become beyond repair? Hopefully more than two.

I move to Astor. Her young face robbed of innocence that should rightfully be there. Her father has scarred her. I'm about to do the same. I look straight ahead. It can't be helped now. I had set her up from the very moment I took her mother to dinner. A clean and quick break is the best thing now.

I look to Cody. He's starring out into the vast sea, a sense of quiet mystery on his face. Will he remember? Will he even understand? Or will take it personally that every father figure he ever has tends to go to jail and die? Or will I fade into a blur, forgotten?

I vaguely hope that Rita can find someone else. Hopefully she'll get it right the next time. No druggies, no sociopaths, just a good man. She deserves that after all she has been through.

Miami is fast approaching, and I long to slow my boat, if only to enjoy the company of Rita and the kids for a little bit longer. But my hand holds firm, the boat continues to move at a steady rate. The last thing I want to do is get nostalgic and scare Rita.

I breath in the fresh air again and the sense of ending looming over me engulfs me just a little bit more.

* * *

Doakes looks resigned, like he has given up hope. I wonder what is going through his head. Is he wondering how he got here? Does he regret his choice to follow the rabbit into it's hole?

I pull up a wooden chair and join him in reflection. I have to wonder, why does one live? For fun? To help others? Or does one live only for fear of death? Where do I fit in? I don't have fun. The best thing I ever get to do is kill others. Sure, I help the community as a whole when I kill, but I don't kill to help others. I don't live to help others. Fear of death? I've never felt it. Death is death, an unavoidable end that I've become very familiar with.

And now, at the dawn of my end, I can't help but feel pleased. Like the last page in a great book, or the perfect closure in a movie. And end to the hassle, the constant pressure and never ending lies. I've seen so many people stare into my face and see death. I've watched all sorts of reactions. Denial, anger, fear, bargaining. Whatever it may be, I've seen how powerful it is. Like a raging storm brewing inside a person's very soul, right before the curtains close. The dramatic last scene.

But me? It appears I don't fit into that group either. I'm calm, accepting, and perhaps even a little bit excited. I breath deeply yet again, smelling the musty wood and the zing of the swamp outside.

"I'll tell you what James", I start. "Can I call you James?", I ask. I wouldn't want this conversation to get off on the wrong foot.

"Knock yourself out", he grumbles, looking off to the side. He still thinks he is going to die.

"I'm toying with an idea...", I start, unsure of how to say this. How do you convey thoughts and ideas when the other person is so unlike yourself? I want to him understand exactly where I am coming from.

"I've been under federal investigation for over two months...", I continue, trying to express how hopelessly trapped I am. He doesn't seem to care, it's old news. "My trophies were stolen", I state with no real anger. It did work to get his attention, if only an askance glance.

"Sorry", he mutters. He probably doesn't mean it, but it's nice to hear. It adds a sense of chivalry to our oh-so uncivil situation.

"The Code I live by has been shattered...", I briefly wonder if he can relate to that. Do normal people have codes too? Or am I just a rambling mad man? "I have a coworker in a cage...", I continue, trying desperately to get his attention, to make him realize just how fucked up things are right now. "Things aren't going so well."

"No shit. I can see that", he grumbles again, still not caring. It frustrates me, how little he cares. I decide to cut to the point.

"You told me. 'Take responsibility for what I am'...You were right", I say. Finally he pays attention. His eyes focus in on me. He gets it. This isn't the ramblings of a mad man, or at least not just that. "Harry killed the wrong person", I let it out while he is paying attention. The weight that I have been caring around since I first learned of my father's true death is partially lifted.

"Morgan...You aren't thinking about-", he starts, but I stop him, already knowing what he is thinking.

"Killing myself? No, that's pathetic...", I correct him. "But I can't live in this house of cards anymore, waiting for it all to fall down. I need to do something", I continue, trying my best to explain it so that an outsider can understand. "I'm thinking about turning myself in", I utter the damning words. Full realization hits him.

"That's a good call. That's a tough call, but a good call", he says, turning to face me directly. I can see it in his eyes, so familiar. It's the look of someone, convinced they are about to die, grasping at a last chance to live. Like an animal, he's internally frenzied and panicked, but he sees a way out, and he's clawing at it, desperate for life.

I sigh, enjoying the feeling of my own kind of propriety that washes over me. It seems only right to sacrifice myself for Doakes. He fears death, I don't. I'm even embracing it.

"I need the fucking relief", I say. How I long for it...I've never realized just how much of a strain living is on me. How hard I work, juggling everything. And for what? To live a life I can't enjoy, for the sake of a man who regretted my very existence?

"Yeah, you can't keep running. That's for pussies. You are just going to end up in exactly the same situation...", he coaxes me further into death's calming embrace. It's purely selfish, I can still see the fear, mingling with hope, in his eyes. He wants to live, and in order to secure that, he wants me dead. I can't hold it against him though, it's only natural.

"Prison. I could finally get some sleep...", I wonder if it is as bad as they say. I'll be put on Death Row, which I hear isn't that bad. Aside from the dying part, that is. "In the long run it would be easier on Deb. Rita. Better than watching me get dragged down like an animal, which, let's face it, will happen someday", I continue to muse. It's better for everyone this way.

"We'll do it together. I'll go with you. Come on, let's go", he says, standing. The animal is pouncing on it's chance, wanting to take it before it disappears into the wind. I won't rob him of it, not this time.

I pull the key out of my pocket, and I can hear his breath hitch. I wonder vaguely if he'll try to attack, uncertain of my sincerity.

"I'm glad it's you to doing this", I mutter before I release him. "I'd hate for me to get caught on some pure accident", it's always been a fear of mine. To die in some meaningless, trivial way. No point or purpose, with all that is and was Dexter Morgan being washed away instantly.

I open the door for him and within that brief moment, the dynamics change. It is no longer capturer and captive. The fear that motivated him so strongly prior is gone. He stares, looking at me for the first real time. I reach into my bag, and I can see him tense. But he doesn't move. He knows that I'm not a threat.

I pull out a pair of gleaming handcuffs and hold them out to him. "Want to do the honors?", I gently kid, welcoming him. He carefully reaches out and takes him. I smile and turn around, putting my hands behind my back. "This must be you're easiest arrest ever", I joke. It's finally over. Oddly enough, my impending doom has put me in a good mood. I'm finally free. I can only smile at the gentle _click_ of the handcuffs. Finally. This feels long over-due.

"You have a morbid sense of humor Morgan", he says in his stoic voice. But there's a tremble deep inside. After years of facing the worst of humanity, watching bad guy after bad guy go down fighting, this must be new to him. Perhaps even touching. This'll be the last time anyone will ever think my actions are noble.

"But deep down, I'm not as bad as you thought", I didn't kill him. I didn't even harm him. Here I am, the deadly Bay Harbor Butcher, going in peacefully. The silence stretches on.

"No, you're not", he says, escorting me out of the cabin.

He stops half way to my car, staring at me. I take the moment to enjoy to the Everglades at night. Moonlight breaks the canopy in splotches and patches, moving with the wind. It's so quiet without the cars or angry cries of the city, but still so loud. The bugs all have their own sounds, all playing at the same time. It's peaceful.

"You're a good man Dexter", a silent voices breaks the choir of the marshes. I turn and look at Doakes. A good man? I still think I'm not what most would consider human, but I like to think I'm a good monster. But his words still touch me. This is what Harry would have wanted.

I chuckle and walk closer to my car. He doesn't seem to care about me moving out of arm's length. It's nice, the trust. This is much better than hiding and running for months, ending with a barrage of police men tackling me and throwing me in a squad car.

It's more tranquil this way.

* * *

All eyes are on us. For the first time in my entire life, I hold my head up, proud. I take dignified steps, and smile and nod to all my co-workers. They look aghast, confused. Wide-eyed faces are everywhere. Doakes' hand is on my back, guiding me. It's a formality, he knows I won't run.

I look at Masuka. He is still, only his eyes moving to follow us. He looks stupefied, as though I had just done something random and crazy, rather than be hauled in by the alleged Bay Harbor Butcher in handcuffs. I grin at him and nod.

Hello Vince Masuka, meet Dexter Morgan.

Angel is there too, looking just as baffled at Masuka, but wanting to do something. He knows one of us is the Bay Harbor Butcher, just not which one. He looks to those around him, as if waiting for a cue on who to tackle to the ground.

LaGuerta has tears in her eyes. Her friend is coming home, an innocent man. I'm glad. I'd feel remorseful if I had to take Doakes from her. No, Doakes will live, free and innocent.

And then I see her. Deb. Standing in the doorway of the conference room, a few feet behind Lundy. She only looks confused, as though nothing is wrong, just off. I have to feel sorry for her, just when she started getting over her fiancée being a serial killer, she finds out her brother is one too. I sigh and look straight ahead. It's better in the long run.

So now here we are. I'm standing dead center in a circle. Everyone crowds around me, fighting to be within three yards of me, lest they don't get to watch to show. No one dares to move any closer though. One of us have killed a whole lot of people, and they know it.

"The Bay Harbor Butcher", Doakes says stoically from behind me. He wants to clear his name, it's understandable. I stand up straight, as though it's something to be proud of, like an entertainer that has just been introduced. I admit, I am a little bit proud of my work.

Whispers begin to emanate, surrounding me in the bliss of honest truth. They swarm and mesh together, preventing any one person from being heard. I can take a guess at what they are saying though.

I keep my eyes straight ahead, carefully avoiding the conference room.

"Dexter?", LaGuerta hisses in a hushed whisper. The room falls silent suddenly, the buzzing coming to an abrupt end.

The spotlight shines on me. It's time for Dexter Morgan to do his act. His first real one.

"Yep", I chirp happily. I'm giddy at being able to show my true self. My mind screams at me how off that is, how I shouldn't be chirping or cheery. But I have to ask myself, why the hell not? That was the point of turning myself in, to be free. No more acting.

The room bursts out in more chatter, louder this time. A few people dive for phones. Some talk to amongst themselves, but most throw questions at me. The three yard barrier that so persistently separated the masses with the Bay Harbor Butches is crushed as the crowd moves further towards me. People push closer to me, until I can see wide and vibrant eyes just inches from my own. The human race, with emotions rushing through them, all displayed in their eyes. I wonder what they see in my eyes? Are they able to notice how dead and lifeless they are, now that it has been pointed out to them.

Doakes' hand moves me, and I follow it, letting it take me back the way we came. The crowds follows, still seeming to want to get closer and closer. I wonder if I started to yell and cuss, would I be able to part them like the Red Sea?

I'm thrown into the interrogation room, cut off from my adoring fans. It's just me and Doakes again, although I'm sure a huge crowd has formed around the monitors recording this room.

"Anything you want before I get hard-ass on you?", Doakes asks in his mean-cop voice. It brings back memories of when he would causally tell me I'm creepy while I hand him my blood splatter report.

"No, I'm good", I reply, as though he just offered me something to drink. But he didn't. That was his last 'thank you', and this was my 'your welcome'. He has to return to being a cop, and I need to be a caught sociopath now. Our roles are pulling us apart as our brief friendship comes to an end.

I'm comforted by the thought that our respect for one another will never meet the same fate.


	2. Doakes

My jumpsuit is itchy. I try my best to scratch, but the handcuffs make it hard. I try to scratch my forearm, but I have to bend my arms awkwardly. They say I'll get use to them.

'They' being my fellow inmates.

I give up on my jumpsuit. The itch is another thing they say I'll get use to. Just in time to die too. I think they were expecting me to panic when they said it, but I could only feel a mild frustration at not getting a jumpsuit made form better material.

I look around the room again. Only a day after my trial, and I already have a visitor. It's nice to know that even though I'm revealed to be a monster, people still want to see me. They didn't tell me who, but it's nice to know there is _someone_. Deb most likely, possibly Rita. I wonder if they'll minimize the crying and or screaming so that maybe I could enjoy their company.

The door opens and I look up, trying to see if they are blonde or brunette. I see neither.

Doakes.

Not exactly who I thought, but I don't mind. You would think that I should have some sort of hostility towards him, since he was the one who caught me. But that's a technicality. As is, he is the closest thing to a real friend I have, if only just because he doesn't despise my guts. He seems to be the only one to acknowledges that I turned myself in.

How did things get this messed up?

"Hey", he says, closing the door awkwardly. He looks at the guard in the room, displeased by the lack of privacy.

"Hey, don't mind him", I say, trying to get Doakes' attention off the guard. "He's not allowed to spill any non-vital information", I elaborate. My time in prison has taught me more about my rights. Doakes looks satisfied, and sits down across from me. He places a newspaper down too. There is an awkward silence as I try to find out what it so interesting about it, but I can only see the sports and business sections. He looks at it, turning the front of it to face me.

"What the fuck?", he asks. I made the front page, how nice. Big bold letters spell out 'Bay Harbor Butcher Brought to Justice' across the top. I don't see where the issue is. I, the Bay Harbor Butcher, have legally been 'brought to justice'.

"What?", I ask, leaning in closer to read the article.

_Dexter Morgan, also know as the Bay Harbor Butcher, has been tried and found guilty of over forty counts of first degree murder-_

"The picture...", he almost growls out. I glance up at my picture.

Oh, right. That. There I am, smiling for the camera. I could have been walking down the red carpet with that grin on my face. I was even to waving to the crowd. It's out of place, I know, but it doesn't really matter anymore. Really, I was just a little thrown off by the amount of people that brought signs with my face, demanding my freedom. One of them even compared me to Batman.

"Excuse me for not having internal cues for when to smile and when to not", I inform Doakes, enjoying my new liberty of saying what I really feel. His angry looks drops, and he looks awkward again. The tension grows thicker and thicker. Maybe I should try to act normal, just for his sake. I'm I trying to come up with something to say, but my mind draws a blank.

"Look, I, uh, just to came to tell you that you did the right thing", he finally says.

"Thanks...", I mutter, unsure of what to think about that. He looks around some more, and the silence becomes all the more thicker. I should say something before he leaves. This'll probably be the last time I ever see him.

"Thanks for making me do the right thing", I finally get out. I'm not sure if it's a good thing to say. After giving up on acting normal, it's hard to get back into it. Either way, it gets his attention. His eyes, previously wandering, now stick to me. He looks at me with a stare becoming more and more familiar. It's him trying to reconcile the real me, with the fake me I've been presenting for years. Or, from their perspective, the old and new Dexter.

"You're a good man Morgan. Most people who are in this much shit wouldn't turn themselves in like you did", he says. It's meant to be a compliment, to tell me that I'm more human than other people. But he's wrong. It's only a reminder that I'm far from normal. Most people wouldn't turn themselves in because they fear death. That is the difference, not some moral integrity. I'm just really fucked up in the head, that's all.

But at the end of the day, aren't we all?

He begins to stands, his hand going for the newspaper.

"Leave it", I command. He stops and looks at me. I smile and say, "I want to know what they wrote about me".

He doesn't say anything else. He just walks out the door, leaving the newspaper behind, and leaving me stripped bare, with my true self showing. The guard moves towards me as I roll up the paper.

_Dexter Morgan, also know as the Bay Harbor Butcher, has been tried and found guilty for over forty counts of first degree murder and has been sentenced to Death Row. He is officially the most prolific and gruesome murderer ever to walk Miami streets. Having earned his named by literally butchering his victims and dumping their bodies on the sea floor, he shows no remorse for his crimes._

_Close friends and family members have refused to comment, but his coworkers say that he always appeared calm and gentle, with no signs of a violent nature._

_With over forty kills it's hard to conceive that Morgan has any sense of morality, but it has been revealed that every one of his victims are murderers themselves. When asked about this as he was being escorted out of the court house, Morgan simply commented, "I have a code." What exactly that means is still unknown._


	3. America

She is pretty. A brunette with long flowing hair, tan, tall too. She's smart, I can tell. Devious, but smart. Her name is Christine Hill, a reporter. She isn't afraid of me either. She even seems excited to be in the presence of such a great vigilante.

A tape recorder is placed on the table with a gentle _thud_. She puts her pen to paper, and we are ready.

"Dexter Morgan, the Bay Harbor Butcher, the single most prolific serial killer in Florida history, America wants to know, who are you?", she asks dramatically, leaning in, as though I don't have a kill count that goes on for several pages.

"You already said who I am; Dexter Morgan", I end it with a grin. Normal people have always seemed weird to me. Now I can finally point that out. And besides, the point of this interview is to reveal how my mind works, so I should say what I think. Isn't that the whole point? To pick clean the mind that belongs to the Bay Harbor Butcher?

Her smiles falters though, and she jots down some notes. Normal people are thrown off so easily. It makes me smile. It's a real smile, the one I get in my kill room. She looks up, biting her lips, writing down more. It looks like she is double thinking this story. Is my true nature starting to sink in?

"Alright, let's start basic then...Why did you do it?", she asks me a real question, still thrown of. Her voice is timid and meek, a far cry from the strong woman that walked in not but five minutes ago. But still, after years of keeping this all to myself, it's nice to finally say it all out loud. To speak my mind and show my true self.

"That's a little bit hard to describe", I remember trying to describe how I thought and felt to Doakes, and how little he understood. How can I possibly convey what my Dark Passenger feels like? Like a color no else has seen before, it's just impossible. The never ending pressure, the sheer _need_.

She looks at me again with that faltered smile. Clearly she doesn't like that answer. I lean back in my chair, trying to ignore the large man with a gun ready and waiting to shoot me if I try to make a break for it.

"It's a need...Not a want, a real need. Like how you eat or drink. It always comes back, no matter how many times you satisfy it", I try to explain it. She is writing down notes furiously, and it makes me hopeful that she understood.

"A need?", she finally asks. My hopes are shattered, she understands nothing. I give a frustrated grunt before trying again.

"It's not hatred, or anger really...It's just this need to kill", I try again to describe. She looks confused now, still not getting it. I sigh, getting more frustrated. I'm like a toddler, unable to convey even my most primitive and basic of needs.

"It feels fantastic, that's why...", I mutter in a hushed voice, leaning in. "Watching the fear and anger, complete and utter realization of death...And then to see that last sparks of life die, to feel that final beat of a heart", I continue, trying to put it all into words. "To watch the blood pools...", my wicked smile returns, and I inhale deeply, carefully recalling the memories. God, even just talking about it excites me. "Fucking _fantastic_", there is no other way I can say it. The feeling of pure ecstasy that comes over, and how I could never live without it.

She's not writing this down. Her hands tremble from their resting place over the paper, otherwise still. That's okay, the recorder got it all. I lean back, enjoying the last of the euphoria I got from just daydreaming about the kill.

It takes her several minutes, but she manages to regain her composure. After several words getting slowly written, only to be crossed out immediately after, she seems to give up on noting my last little outburst.

"So if you kill because of this 'need', why do you kill only murderers?", she asks. I sit up straight, unsure of how to answer that. Should I tell her about The Code? Where it came from? No, I can't. My name can get dragged through the mud, but I can't ruin Harry's name. I settle for a middle ground.

"I have some morals. A code", I tell her.

"You mentioned a 'code' on the day of your trial. Is this what you meant?", she fires another question at me, regaining her spirit.

"If I have to kill someone...", I trail off, not wanting to get too far into my Code. She writes more notes down, and I wait for her next question. She seems to realize that I'm not going to be talking about the code.

"Are you proud of what you have done? Remorseful? Or do you just not care?", she asks, delving deeper into my mind. Normally I would fight this kind of questioning, this probing, a hunt for my inner monster. But not anymore. I take a deep breath, enjoying the sweet freedom of prison. Now that monster can come right out and wave. No more hiding.

"Proud really. I know society will frown on this, but I'm damn proud", I say, letting the last bits of my mask fall. This is Dexter Morgan, the Bay Harbor Butcher. "Like it or not, I took out forty some killers that our justice system has failed on. I only rectified America's mistakes", I continue, watching her devious smile slip and twist into a bitter sense of contempt.

"But what if you got it wrong-"

"I never get it wrong", I hiss at her. No, when they write this down for generations to come to learn from it, they will get it right. Dexter Morgan never gets the wrong guy. Never.

"Never? Are you sure about that?", she continues. My temper starts to rise. I try to bite it back like so many times before, but I can't, not anymore. Not now, when I have been promised my freedom of expression.

"You listen to me, I _never_ get it wrong. Never. The Code would never allow it. I would never allow it", I growl at her, leaning across the table. Her faces changes again, from distaste to fear. It's too late for me to reel my anger back though. "I've made damn sure each and every one of them were guilty, so you _dare_ fucking think that I messed up. I _never_ mess up", my voice rises, and my God, it feels just so damn _good_ to let it be free, to have the words spew from my mouths, laced with venom and dripping with hatred. How beautiful it is to let my Dark Passenger run free.

I begin to stand so I can lean closer to her. She leans back, but I still get within inches to her face. "So you go ahead and fucking tell that to America", I hiss more. She gasps, afraid. A hand is on my back, forcing the side of my face into the table.

"Don't move!", the guard tells me, pressing the barrel of his gun to my head. My anger melts away and I remain perfectly still. I stare at Christine from my awkward place on the table, grinning and my freedom. This'll be something for her story.

She gets up and rapidly puts her stuff away. Throwing them all into her bag, completely unorganized. I'm tempted to tell her that she can take her time, but she's already gone.

I hope America will enjoy this interview.


	4. Masuka

Today, I have a visitor. They never say who, just 'visitor'. It has to be Rita or Deb. Probably Deb. It's been almost two months since my trial. She has to get here soon.

The chains rattle as I walk down the hallway. It's funny how the sound of shackles means that I finally have true freedom. The musty, sweaty scent of the prison is the smell of complete liberty, and the constant and armed supervision is only the small price I have to pay.

The door is opened with a small _click_, otherwise soundless.

It's not Deb.

I was hoping for my tall, brunette sister, waiting for me with a cocky grin on her face and a swear on her lips. Instead I got my tiny scientist of a friend.

Good. He may not like me or respect me, but with all the crime scenes he has been to, and all the perverted jokes he has made about dead, mutilated bodies, he shouldn't be too patronizing.

"Vince", I greet him with his first name, smiling the best friendly smile I can muster after being out of practice for so long. I'm glad he came, I could use someone to unwind to. Someone that won't shift nervously and mutter that I'm a psycho or tell me to shut up and spot them.

"Dexter", he says, his voice somewhere between horrified and stupefied. My smile drops. I was hoping for some crude remark. Instead a silence forms, with no sense of familiarity, friendship, or anything decent. Thick and suffocating, it creeps into the room, reminding me that I'm alone. That all the people on my table were right; no ones could ever accept the real me. The thought gives me a chill that resides deep in me, that I am truly no better than all the child molesters and rapists that I've killed over the years.

I refuse that. I am better. Maybe not equal with humanity, but definitely better than my victims. My mind reels, and I grasp for something to say, anything that'll bring my friend back.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?", I continue, trying to set him up. I want the Masuka that I've spent so many years along side. The one that tells crude jokes, and then laughs at them himself. I want him to make some obscene statement about my use of the word 'pleasure'. Hell, I'd be happy for a prison rape joke.

But he says nothing, not truly being here. His face, usually stoic and breaking out into perverted laughter, has been transformed, morphed into something solemn and humorless. The comedy that he always seemed to find, regardless of the gore and death, has been sucked out. Today, he can find nothing to laugh at.

His eyes look me up and down, taking it all in. My orange jumpsuit, complete with my inmate number, the handcuffs, and my shaved head. "We match", I joke weakly, referring to my new, mandatory haircut. But he says nothing, just stares with those eyes.

Eyes that see everything for the first time, as though a light switch has just been turned on, revealing the horrors that have crept beside him for years. He takes it all in, and I wonder, does he also take in the good with the bad? How I only killed people who deserved it, or that I did turn myself in?

No, he's like all the others. A killer is a killer. Doesn't matter who they kill or why, once you have blood on your hands, you're nothing better than an animal.

I want him to know this is wrong. That I'm still Dexter, the donut guy. That I _am_ better than the others. Doakes talked to me. That reporter talked. Of all the people to have an emotional shutdown when visiting me, I didn't think Masuka would be one of them.

"I'm still Dexter", I finally get out. "It's just the real me", I try to comfort my friend, to make him see, but my docile break in the silence is engulfed by it once again. My words hand in the air, never truly entering his brain.

"Have you ever thought about killing me?", he finally says something. I'm almost relieved to hear him say this. He's just caught up in the whole thing, once he sees that I have haven't suddenly turned into some monster, he'll realize there isn't anything to be afraid of. I have not changed at all within the last few months.

"Never. You're my friend Vince", I say, trying to smile my friendly and hopefully disarming smile. But it's too forced, I show too much tooth, and it becomes an evil grin. I drop it, hoping too much damage hasn't been done.

We fall back into silence, and I still don't understand why.

"Why?", I ask, a rough edge to my voice. "Why does it matter so much?", I murmur, angry, my tone as cold as ice. It makes me irritated how suddenly I'm such a bad guy. I knew they wouldn't be able to understand that what I do is actually good, but it's much worse than I thought. The way they look at me, like I'm a beast, less-than human.

His eyes flick up to me, fear growing in them, gnawing away at the uncertainty. Confirmation. I'm giving him confirmation that I am a beast, a sub-human creature. His eyes, previously heated with confusion and tragedy, harden with disillusionment.

"Fuck you", I spit, my anger flaring at how he just doesn't understands. My chest heaves as smoldering rage settles into me. He gets up and leaves the room. I'm left staring at where he was.

"Fuck you Masuka", I mutter again to no one in particular, rage bubbling through my words.


	5. Rita

I stare at the door intently. Who came to see me today? I'm still holding out hope that it will be Deb or Rita, but it's been three months. I try to fight back the anticipation. Instead I just stare at the door waiting.

And waiting.

Whoever my visitor is, they are taking their time. I look to the guard, as if he has any answers. He just glares at me. I don't know why the guards hate me so much, I'm a good inmate. It's probably just part of their job. I try not to take it personally.

I shift in my chair, waiting some more.

Finally, the door creaks open. I lean forward, trying to see who held me up for so long.

I see blonde.

"Rita", I breath, smiling, my relief seeping into my words and expression. I was starting to worry she wouldn't ever visit me. I was even trying to convince myself to give up hope.

My warm welcome doesn't nothing to help though. She stands there, eyes wide, tears ready to fall, looking like a deer. I'm afraid the slightest breath will send her bounding away.

"Please sit", I plead. I don't want her to run out on me, and it looks like she might do just that. I awkwardly gesture to the empty chair across from me, trying to work with the handcuffs. I can hear her choppy breathing. I'm unsure if it's a sigh, gasp, or her about to break out into the tears that are still lingering in her big blue eyes. Her eyes hook onto the chains bounding my hands. She looks up, seeing me. I'm pale, my head is still shaven, and I have on my loyal bright orange jumpsuit. I wonder just how much like Paul I look like right now.

I frown. This must be painful for her, to see me chained up like this. After she has already gone through this heartbreak, I'm forcing her to do it again. But it can't be helped. I've spent the last year lying to her about who I am. Now it's time for her to see my true self.

"Please?", I beg for her to sit. I wonder if she knows how rare it is for me to beg, or how she is one of the few people who could make me do it.

She moves and sits down in the chair across me from, and I smile. She doesn't look at me. She puts her head in her hands and sobs quietly. I look to the guard, wondering if he'd shot me if I tried to touch her. I can't give her a hug with handcuffs anyway. I don't even know if I should hug her.

"I am I really that bad?", I ask softly. I'm not, I already know it, but I want her to think it through and see it. I'm not that bad.

Her shoulders shake, and gentle sobs are muffled by her hands. I almost think she didn't hear me, but then she lifts her head, showing me her bloodshot eyes, still avoiding me.

"I don't know", she whispers to the wall. It makes me start to hope that she doesn't completely hate me. It's not an outright 'yes', it has uncertainty.

"I don't hurt innocent people", I say, repeating my declaration from so long ago, hoping for that loving smile in return once again. But she only frowns, full realization of what I meant hitting her. "That's something", I try again to bring her to my side, make her see.

She turns to face me, looking me dead in my eyes. The love and gentle compassion I've always seen in her face is gone with anger.

"Then why didn't you become a cop? Why did you kill them yourself? Why did you cut-", she is interrupted by a sob that rips out of her. "Cut them up?", she finishes, her voice dropping with the last question.

Her words hang heavily in the air. I don't want to answer them, I don't want to say it. I'm a sociopath. I am bad, just not as bad.

I don't say it. I look down, ashamed. The silence settles. There is nothing left to say, she knows enough. The only sound is my own breathing and her occasional sob.

"It's not your fault", I say after what seems like eons of silence. "Paul and now me, it's not your fault", because I need to say it. I need her to know that she can do better. I need her to do better.

Her sobs escalate, and I wonder if I should stop. I decide that it's better not to. "Some people get into a relationship with the wrong person. Some people do it twice. It's just be chance", I tell her, reaching across the table to place my hands on hers. She flinches when I touch her, but don't pull away. I smile.

"Just promise that you'll make sure the next one is a good guy", she sobs quiet down and she stares at our hands. Her eyes, normally a vivid blue, have dulled and become glazed over.

"You were a good guy", she mutters. My heart flutters at the small token of acceptance. Maybe not for what I do, but acknowledging that I do good with the bad. She looks down, rubbing my palm with the thumb. The silence returns, but it'd better this time. Now, truly everything that needed to be said, has been.

"I brought Astor and Cody", her quiet voice seems to echo out with the new knowledge. My heart sputters and the twist in fate, and I stare at her, shocked.

"Here?", I ask, surprised. I expected Rita, but not the kids. The kids.

"You told me", she breaks, chest heaving with a sob, "That I can't protect Paul from them-", another sob, "that I needed to have him explain what happened. You need to do the same", she says through the tears. How am I suppose to explain this to them?

My heart sinks and there's a twist in my gut. I'm not sure if I'm happy to see them or not. But I don't have time to decide. She's gone and out of the room.

The door opens a second later, and I don't like the twist in my guy, I decide.


	6. The Kids

Her eyes are as wide as her mother's. She looks up at me, confused and scared, and I know that that knot in my gut is definitely bad.

"Dexter?", she says, taking a step closer to me. I get out of my seat and kneel down.

"Hey Astor...", I say trailing off. I smile and try to welcome her. She runs to me, embracing me. I can see the guard shift out of the corner of my eye, but I'm distracted by trying to hug her with my handcuffs.

I can't.

"Why Dexter?", she whispers, her tears seeping through my jumpsuit. I stroke her hair, trying to comfort her. My mind scrambles to think of something to say, anything that'll make this alright. But I draw a blank.

"Why?", her tiny voice squeaks again, and even though it's muffled by my jumpsuit, it seems to echo out and within the room. My mind jumps into action, lies are woven together in my head and words start to form in my mouth.

"Because I wanted to make sure you'd be safe", I murmur, pulling her away. "There are a lot of bad people in the world. I just made sure they wouldn't ever hurt anyone", I try to explain to her. But no matter how softly I whisper then, her eyes are still filled with pain.

She looks down, her shoulders shaking and small gasps of breathing coming from her. "You're lying. You're just like dad", she yells, her voice rising. The smile that I had worked so hard on keeping up falls, and angry flutters briefly in my chest. I fight it back instantly though. She is only a child. She doesn't understand the difference.

"No, there is a big difference. I get rid of bad people", I coo, trying to get her to see what I really do. But she just stands there, sobbing. She won't forget me, I realize. Cody might, but she won't.

"But you are a bad person", her words frustrate me again, but just awkwardly stroke her hair.

"Astor, do you know what they do to bad people?", I ask her softly. She shakes her head, silent tears still rolling down her cheek. "The same thing I do to them", I explain. She looks at me, still quietly crying, thinking it over.

"Then why do they say you are a bad guy?", she asks. I smile, glad that I could get through to her.

"Because they don't like what I do. They want to do it themselves", I try to explain the legal system to a child. I have a feeling I'm failing miserably.

She looks down, and I know I have failed in getting through to her. She stands there for a moment, seemingly uncertain of what to do or say. She looks up though, and I can see that the tears are gone. Her eyes are empty and devoid of all hope and love. She walks up and hugs me, but I can feel the lack of love. I've scarred her. Just like her father, I've left a deep gash in her. Deeper even.

"Bye Dexter", she says, her soft voice carrying through the room, birthing a whole new round of silence.

She turns and walks through the door. I return to me seat, half glad it's over, but still upset that I failed at getting through to her. It seemed like she was getting it.

Cody's meek face peeks through the door a moment later, and my attention shifts. I smile sadly at him, welcoming him in. Poor kid. First his dad, then me. Astor had never truly let me in, but Cody had embraced me a something close to a second father.

"Hey there kiddo", I mutter, drawing him into the room. He fully moves into the room, shutting the door behind him. I smile again, wishing he wasn't here, and didn't have to see me chained and bound like this.

"Dexter?", he asks quietly.

"Cody. As handsome as ever", I try to ease the tension. Children should not have to see this. He moves slowly to the empty chair, taking a seat. He eyes the guard and his gun. Children definitely should not have to see this.

He looks down at the table for a moment, and I try to figure out how to explain this.

"I know they are lying", his voice breaks the silence. I look up, surprised by how much pride and dignity is in his small voice. "You're a good guy", he finishes looking at me. I blink, surprised. He understands. A five year child gets it.

Or maybe he just doesn't want his second father figure to crumble with the first. It's close enough.

"You're a very smart kid", I tell him, leaning forward and smiling. I can see the guard scowl, but I ignore him. He looks down, thinking about something before looking up again, a passion burning in his eyes.

"You're kind of like Santa, huh?", he chirps. I furrow my brows, trying to make the connection from jolly old fat man that stalks you year round, and breaks into your house once a year to give you stuff, and me.

"How's that?"

"You make sure everyone gets what they deserve", he explains, as though it should be obvious. As if I shouldn't even have to ask.

I smile and laugh. Only a kid could see a connection like that.

Cody smiles and gets up. He hugs me tightly, before he bounds towards the door. He stops before he exits it though, turning to me and smiling.

"I'll see you when they let you go", he says, voice full of cheer, before he runs through the door. My smile drops.

Rita didn't explain what is going to happen to me. Did she expect me to? Some remaining part of me that claims some semblance of a parent to them feels a pang of frustration towards Rita. They can't be expecting me to come out. I think of the next year or two for Cody. Will he wait? Try to visit me? Ask his mother when he'll see me again? What will he think once he realizes that he won't ever see me again. That they'll kill me.

I've damaged him in a much worse way than Astor, I realize. I destroyed Astor's trust in father figures, but I've also destroyed Cody's sense of morality. Whatever it is that the rest of society has that tells them I do wrong, Cody doesn't. I wonder if he will ever think I'm wrong, a bad man, or will he grow up more like me. Just pretending, trying to stay normal.

He thinks I'm a good guy. Does that make the State a bad guy? Did I just create an anarchist?

I get up from my chair, the guard ushers me out of the room. Just how deep did I scar those kids?


	7. LaGuerta

I walk down the twisting halls that I had began to think I would never see again. It's been a little over a full year now, I thought I was done with visitors. But my execution date is fast approaching. I guess it has prompted some more people to see me.

I can't fight back the small twinge of hope that maybe, just maybe, it's Deb, finally here to say her goodbyes.

It's not.

LaGuerta is sitting at the table with all of the air of dignity and pride that seems to constantly follow her in the station.

"Hey", I say, sitting down in my chair, as though it was any ordinary day in the station. Like I'm not just a few months from death. She looks down, gathering herself.

"Dexter", she says, looking back up. Her face is covered with passion, and I have to wonder which side she is on. Probably the State's side.

Her eyes skim over me, my hardened face, empty eyes, shaved head, orange jumpsuit, and chains. It's like when I first got here, when my friends would always appraise me.

"You've...put on some muscle", she says, looking at my arms. I look down, examining myself. I hadn't really noticed it, but she is right. Between working out and all the hard labor, I have put on some extra muscle. I look back up at her and shrug. It's part of the whole prison thing.

She seems to take another moment to figure out what to say and how. I'm not surprised. LaGuerta is organized like that; a politician. She only says exactly what she should, exactly when she should. She probably outlined what she is planning to say. I give her all the time she needs to gather her thoughts.

"You are a horrible person", she starts off. Wow, right off the bat, and already calling me a monster. "What you have done to not only your victims, but those around you is unforgivable", I feel no guilt for my victims, but the image of Deb, standing behind Lundy, with that confused look on her face, runs into my mind. I feel a pang of remorse for her pain, but I did the best thing I could do.

"I've already gotten that talk, just so you know", I tell her, my voice bored. The remorse for harming Deb was fleeting, and I'm back to feeling out of place.

She looks at me, frowning. I disrupted her prepared speech.

"You feel no remorse for any of the lives you took", she says, leaning towards me, her eyes burning. "You did it because it feels, 'fucking fantastic'", she says, making air quotes around 'fucking fanatic', quoting the explanation I gave to that reporter.

"You read the article Hill did on me?", I ask, my interest shifting. "Could you send it me? I never did get to read it", I ask. I always did wonder how she wrote me. I was even a little bit afraid she wouldn't, since our interview was cut short.

LaGuerta is not pleased. She scowls again, upset by just how little I seem to care about any of this. I consider trying to act sorry for my kills, but decide against it. No more lying for Dexter Morgan.

"You are a sick person, and you are getting exactly what you deserve", she ignores my request. I frown. I do want to read it before I die. Maybe I could guilt one of the guards into getting me a copy. They tend to be more sympathetic right before an execution.

"That aside, you did do the right thing turning yourself in", she says, standing. I blink, my interests shifting once again. I look up at her, confused and little bit happy she acknowledges my sacrifice.

I grunt unintelligently, thrown off by the sudden change of winds. She walks around the table and wraps her arms around me. I sit there, trying to figure this out. Some remaining part of me that still tries to act normal wants me to return the hug. My hands are not allowed to move much more than a few inches apart though, and the impulse quickly leaves.

She takes a shaky breath, and I can tell she is crying.

"Thank you for clearing his name", she whispers, her voice shaken and full of gratitude.

Doakes.

She is glad that I turned myself in. She knows that I might have gotten away with framing Doakes. Did he tell her himself? They are close. She knows exactly what I did. It's nice to know that at least a few people understand. Not everyone thinks I'm a complete monster.

I wonder if the first part was just a formality. She is a politician, sympathizing with someone like me could ruin her career.

She pulls away, and smiles at me.

"It was best for everyone", I say, nodding. Doakes is free, LaGuerta still has her friend, and Deb and Rita doesn't have to spend months agonizing over if I truly am a monster.

It truly is better for everyone. I think. It's hard to say that it has proven to be better for Deb and Rita, but they had to find out sooner or later, right? Rita seems to at least be on the path to recovery, but I doubt Deb is. She should see me. She needs to before she can move on. I even asked a prison psychologist. Maybe there was just no way for Deb to make it out of this.

LaGuerta pats me on my back and gives me one last sad smile. I smile sadly back too, but for completely different reasons. I don't feel bad about my death, I feel bad for what I did to my sister.

LaGuerta turns and moves across the room, having said everything she needed to say. I stand, getting ready to leave myself.

"Dexter?", her voice calls out, lighter and less burdened.

"Yeah?", I ask, turning around and looking at her.

"I'll send you that article", she says, smiling. I smile back her.

"Thanks", I manage to get out before the guard pushes me out of the room.


	8. Angel

It's almost time. August ninth is my last day life. Not even a week away. It makes a man wonder, what comes after? Eternal punishment for my heinous sins? Do I get to haunt something? Or will I simply cease to exist? Guess I'll find out.

I was afraid Deb wouldn't visit. My execution date is in less than a week now. But today, I have another visitor. It has to be her. She just wanted to wait until I was about to die. They do that. Visitors right before you die is common, or so my fellow inmates tell me. Makes it more final apparently.

The door opens and my heart sinks farther than it should, with me being a sociopath and all.

Not Deb.

Angel, in fact. The detective that has been my kinda friend for many years now. I smile and try not to let my disappointment seep through.

"Hello Angel", I greet kindly. He looks me up and down, and I turn around slowly, showing him my entire body.

"Dexter Morgan in his final days", I say, allowing him to inspect me, just like everyone before him has done. I sit down after a minute, sensing he has seen enough. "Better than wasting away from cancer", I add with a shrug. All things considered, this isn't that bad. I missed my hair at first, but I got use to it. And LaGuerta was right, I have put on a lot of muscle.

His lips start to curl up, as though he is about to smile or laugh, but the morbid humor falls flat, and a miserable looks creeps onto his face instead. The usual silence settles. The one that can't truly be found anyone else in the world. Just in a Death Row visiting room.

"Hey Angel?", I start, partially to break the silence that I have suffered through far too many times now, but also to sate my curiosity.

"Yeah?"

"Why hasn't Deb visited me yet?", I ask the question that has been haunting me for some time now.

"Deb? She doesn't want to. She's been taking it really hard", he says, muttering the last part. I frown. Just how hard is 'really hard'? Too hard for my tastes.

"Tell her she'll never forgive herself if she doesn't say goodbye", I command him, as if I could convince Deb directly through Angel.

"I did. She still doesn't want to", he says. A sense of hopelessness slinks over me. Clearly she doesn't seem too willing to come in.

"My execution date is almost here", I nearly whine, as though it should bring Deb to me. My mind starts to drift, musing over the fact that she is not going to visit me. It creates a pit in my stomach. That won't do.

Deb needs to visit me. Not just for me, but for her. She needs to. It's a necessity for her to move on. After just how much I've fucked up her life, I owe her that much. She'll get her last goodbye. I'll make sure of it.

"August ninth", Angel says gravely, bringing me back to reality. I shift my thoughts to lighter topics, such as my impending doom. I suppose it is a grave date. Or should be. I can't help but be a little bit excited though. Will I be able to get peace at long last? Or will it simply be a new chapter? Will I wander the earth forever? Will I be hurled into some supernatural world?

"What do you think happens when you die?", I ask the lighter question that I have been wondering for some time now. Most inmates ask this question and look down, scared and worried. But I enjoy musing on it, wondering. Like the next episode of an interesting TV series, fun to think about, but pointless pondering at the end of the day.

Angel remains silent though. I look at him, curious as to what is holding up his answer.

He looks awkward, opening his mouth and closing it, grasping for the right words. Right, he's Christian. Catholic, I believe. Which would put me burning in Hell in his world view. The thought isn't particularly frightening to me. Hell, with all the people that I've killed, Satan might even reward me.

I laugh at the thought, and the concept as a whole. It echoes out around the room, shocking both Angel and the guard. Hell. The thought seems funny to me. Eternal punishment. Where I'll be with my own kind. If it's anything like prison, I'll like it. No more acting, and I'm good. Just so long as the lies end, I'll love it.

"I'll try to tell you if Hell is really all it's cracked up to be", I joke, showing him that I don't mind the idea. He frowns, clearly upset. Is he offended? Does he think I'm laughing because I find the thought of Hell impossible?

"I don't think you are going to Hell", he says with such honestly and certainty that I have to stare. That, I did not expect.

"Are you saying that to try to make me feel better, or do you really believe that God doesn't mind mass murder?", I ask. I'm having a hard time buying that he doesn't believe I'll go to Hell. I seem to remember 'Thou shall not kill' being thrown out there somewhere.

"Really", He says. I stare him incredulously. "I've been watching people do horrible things and get away with it for years", he says, leaning in. "I'm glad that someone stepped up to plate and cleaned up what fell through the cracks", he explains.

I stare, believing him, at a loss for words. I haven't had anyone say that I did the right thing in killing people, just that turning myself in was the right thing. He leans in closer, having something else to say.

"Dexter, if I could chose a person, a real person, to be like, out of anyone, it would be you", he says the familiar words, quoting them to near perfection, before he stands and pats me on the shoulder. One last sad smile and he's gone, leaving me with my thoughts.


	9. Deb

The bed is amazingly comfortable. Probably just seems like it because I've spent the last year and a half sleeping on a cot.

I look over the room again, lit only by moonlight. I listen carefully for sirens. The police are surely after me. But not even the faintest whisper of them can be heard. I rest my head on my knee. I still have my bright orange jumpsuit on. I consider changing into something better, but I plan on going back to prison in a few hours anyway.

Since Deb wasn't going to visit me, I decided to visit her. What do I have to lose? My execution date is tomorrow. I gave her all the time I could, she still refused to visit. It had to be done.

I move about the room, examining my little sister's life. It seems almost the same as before. But little things are off. Like how every picture of me seems to either be missing or among a broken picture frame and glass on the floor. How dust has gathered on just about everything, telling my she hasn't done much but sleep and eat for the past year. The large stack of unopened mail that barely made it past the front door.

What really disturbs me is the empty bottles of vodka and scotch that litter her apartment, coating it with a scent that both burns your nose and leaves a rotten taste in your mouth. Angel was right, she is taking things really hard. Really, _really_ hard.

I listen again for the sirens. The night is perfectly quiet, and it's so easy for my mind to play tricks on me. The simple buzz of a mosquito seems to turn into the gentle whispers of police sirens, coming to take me away.

But it's a trick. There are no police coming. The sirens are nothing but a bug, and I'm left waiting.

I walk to her bed stand. Between an empty beer can and a half full bottle of scotch is a picture, face down. I pick it up, viewing it.

It's me and Deb. We are at the station, hugging and smiling. I wonder if she considers herself an only child now.

I wonder what she'd do if she found out that Harry was in on this all. I don't like that thought. I'm really glad I didn't spill everything to that reporter like I wanted to.

The lights flick on and I spin around.

Finally, Deb.

Her face is horror stricken, her eyes red from crying. Doesn't exactly fit my picture of her smirking that famous Deb-smirk. Not that I expected that. If she was my same old sister, than I wouldn't have had to break out of prison to help her.

"Deb!", I gasp, finally glad to see her. Her face is still twisted with horror, and I decide that I need to make this quick. When she does start to think and act, then I probably won't be able to get a word in.

"I know you hate me, and probably really pissed that I broke out of prison, but listen to me. I just want to talk to you", I rush out in one breath, trying to disarm her. Her eyes are empty, dead, and I feel like I killed her myself. I killed her in worse ways than I've killed any of my other victims. But I'll fix her, even if it's the last thing I'll do. Which it will be.

"No...", she mutters deadpan, stepping back, tears forming in her eyes. Life flows into her brown eyes, even if it's pain. It's...something.

"I'm sorry about breaking into your home, but I just had to say goodbye. Look, I know that you really hate me, but I do love you-"

"Get out...", she whispers, her voice still dead.

"You're my little sister, and I couldn't die without saying that I'm so sorry for hurting you like this-"

"Get out", she interrupts me again, with more force this time. Anger begins to form. It's good I decide. Anger is better than depression.

"And I will. I'll go back to prison, just as soon as I make sure you know this-"

"Get the fuck out!", she screams, and I flinch, afraid the neighbors heard. They'll call the cops, and I'll be dragged back to prison. I look at her pleadingly, realizing that my time may have just become very limited.

"Deb, listen-", I try again.

"No! Get the fuck out!", she screams again, pulling out her gun. My breaths hitches. The situation just got deadly.

"Deb, put the gun away", I try to coax her back to sanity. She doesn't scream this time, but she's panting, and I can see the pure rage boiling in her. The hatred splayed all over her face.

"You don't want to shoot me", I say, even though I know it's a lie by the way she is glaring at me. "You'd regret it forever", I continue, trying to get her to see some sense. I've already accepted death, but she couldn't live with herself if she killed me. This is about her. I need to make sure that she'll be okay. How could she ever recover from killing her own brother?

She points the gun at me, and I can hear the gentle click as the safety is turned off.

"Deb...", I softly beg.

There's a bang. A pain in my chest. My legs go numb. The room spins, and I realize I'm falling. The world around me becomes silent, sounds meshing into a gentle hum. The only real sound is my heart beating sporadically. Deb drops the gun and falls into the fetal position, crying. I can't hear her sobs, but I can see the tears streaming down her cheeks and her mouth open wide as she screams. I'm vaguely aware that I've failed her. I try to say that I'm sorry, but I'm not sure if I was able to move my lips.

I realize I'm covered in a liquid.

I realize the liquid is blood.

It hurts to breath, so I stop.

I can't hear my heart anymore.


End file.
